by Nick Carter
The next day was Wednesday. I advised Fayeh where I was going and took a taxi out to the pyramids alone. We drove along the Sharia el Ghizeh past the Egyptian University with its green gardens, and then we were on the edge of the desert. The Pyramids of Giza loomed just ahead, the Cheops and Chephren pyramids standing bold against a clear morning sky.
As we drew closer, the inscrutable Sphinx came into view at the base of the Chephren pyramid, representing the god of the rising sun, Harmachis. But the serenity of the scene had already been disturbed by camel drivers with their braying animals, vendors of all varieties and tourists.
The driver let me off near the Sphinx, and I was immediately accosted by several guides. After convincing them that I did not want a tour, I looked around for the man Thinman had described to me. I half expected another trap but I had to take the chance.
There were several vendors near the Sphinx and generally milling about the area, selling everything from the pretzel-like Egyptian bread to dry goods and souvenir trinkets. But the man I was looking for did not seem to be there. He would not be, of course, if Thinman had tipped him off.
I had just about decided that my man wouldn't show up when I saw him approaching. He wore a brightly blue-striped djellaba with the dark red fez on his head and, when I looked more closely, I saw the faint scar across his right cheek. I was getting somewhere.
He was carrying a collapsible stand which formed a wooden box with a handle when it was closed. I presumed that inside this was the basboussa. I stood at a distance and watched him as he set up. He let several tourists pass without making any attempt to sell them his sweets. Yes, this was my man. I walked over to him.
'You have some sweets for sale,' I said in Arabic.
He looked up at me indifferently. He was a tall thin Arab with quite dark skin and a large bony nose. 'How much do you want?'
'I would prefer to sell rather than buy,' I told him.
His eyes now searched mine suspiciously. 'What do you mean?'
I looked around to be sure no tourist stood nearby. 'I mean I have something for sale that you would be very much interested in.'
He stared at me for a moment, then made a face and looked down at his tray of goods. 'I think you misunderstand. I am a poor vendor of sweets. I do not purchase goods from wealthy English.'
He was one of the desert Arabs who referred to any white man as English because that was the worst insult in his world.
'Look, they sent me to you. The sale has their approval. I spoke to Abdullah.'
His eyes changed at the mention of his contact's name. He looked me over again, slowly. 'I don't know what you are talking about.'
I leaned close. 'I have a big package of high-grade hash. My price is unbeatable. Now, do you really want me to go away?'
His eyes came up slowly to meet mine. He glanced around quickly before he spoke. 'Abdullah sent you?'
'That's right.'
'Where is this hash?'
I gave him a grin. 'In a safe place. Step down to the street with me a moment, away from these tourists, and I'll tell you about it. Your tray will be safe.'
He hesitated a moment. 'All right, English,' he said in a low voice. 'But what you say had better be the truth.'
We moved down to the street level together, and I walked him to an alley and suggested we step into it. He balked, but when I said impatiently, 'Come on, I haven't got all day,' he moved. The rest was easy. Two quick karate chops put him down and out. I took his djellaba off and put it on, set his fez on my head. I left him bound and gagged in the alley and emerged as a vendor.
I went back to his stand and sat down crosslegged beside it to wait. I hoped Abdullah showed up before somebody found the real peddler in the alley. I had waited about fifteen minutes when contact was made.
A big, squarish Arab in a neat western business suit moved up to the tray casually. He appeared to be looking the sweets over. I kept my face down and he hadn't gotten a good look at me yet.
'A kilo of basboussa,' he said. He had a small package palmed in his right hand. I could see a bulge of a pistol under the tight-fitting jacket.
I grabbed at some of the stuff on the tray and crammed it into a small bag. When I handed it to him, I looked up, and he saw my face. His eyes widened. 'What is this?' he said. 'You are not…'
Then he saw Wilhelmina in my hand, underneath the bag. The muzzle of the Luger was pointed at his chest. I stood slowly.
'Don't make a scene,' I asked.
He glared at the gun and I feared he might just call my bluff. 'Are you a cop?' he said.
'No,' I said. 'Now walk with me to the Cheops pyramid and buy us two tickets to enter. The Luger will be under this djellaba at all times, pointed at your back.'
He watched as I stuffed Wilhelmina into the robe. 'If you want the "H", take it now,' he said.
'I don't want it,' I told him. 'And I'm getting impatient.'
He hesitated, then shrugged and stuck the package of heroin into his jacket pocket. He turned and headed toward the pyramid. I followed right behind. At the entrance he purchased two tickets from a sleepy attendant and we passed into the mountain of cut stone.
Inside the ancient tomb it was damp and cool. There were almost no visitors yet. The New Brotherhood thug and I descended alone down a stone tunnel to a subterranean room, a burial room that was never used by Cheops. There were two tourists there. We moved on down to the bottom of the shaft to its dark end and turned right into a smaller passage where we had to bend over double to walk. Soon we arrived at a small room where few visitors ever came. It was dimly lighted by one bare bulb. We were quite alone.
I pulled Wilhelmina from the robe. 'This will be just fine,' I said.
His dark eyes glinted angrily. 'What is it you want?'
'I want to see Pierre Bovet,' I said.
'Ah. So you are the one.'
'I'm the one, still alive and kicking. And in no mood for games. I want you to go to Bovet and arrange a meeting for me. You will discuss the matter with no one but Bovet — particularly not with el Bekri.'
His face showed surprise that I knew names. 'Bovet will have no interest in seeing you.'
'Let's let him decide that.'
He hunched his thick shoulders. 'All right. If that is the way you want it.'
He made a motion as if to reach into his jacket side pocket for something and suddenly the hand balled into a fist and was chopping at my gun hand. I was caught off-guard. The fist hit my wrist hard and the Luger went flying.
I moved toward the gun on the floor, but Abdullah was there, between me and the Luger. He was very confident. He was going to teach me a lesson… I could see it in his face.
I threw a hard left into that square face but it had almost no effect on this bull of a man. He moved back a step but he was not really shaken. In fact, he was still smiling.
Before I could follow through, he returned the blow with a ham fist. I tried to deflect it but it caught me along the cheek and jaw and knocked me down. I sprawled on the floor, dazed. Slowly I struggled to my feet. I was about to draw Hugo into play when the big fist came again, smashing into my chin. I was sure he had busted my jaw as I lurched back against the stone wall.
I hit the wall hard. Before I could recover, he threw another fist into my chest, under my heart, and I doubled up in sharp, breathless pain. I slumped to my knees.
He stood triumphant over me. 'Pierre Bovet indeed!' he said. He turned from me disdainfully, walking toward Wilhelmina across the room.
I sucked in air and coiled my feet under me. I threw myself at his legs. He went down heavily, hitting the stone floor hard. He rolled and I saw the anger in his face. He kicked out viciously with a big foot, the kick grazing my head. Then he was back on his feet.
'I will step on you as an elephant steps on an ant,' he growled at me in Arabic.
He threw a big fist at my head again. But this time I was ready. I caught the arm and hand and pulled, twisting my body at the same time. He went flying
over my shoulder and hit the stones. I heard the breath punched from his lungs.
But Abdullah was not finished. He struggled back to his knees. I didn't wait to see what he had in mind. I kicked him in the face and heard bone break. I moved in close and chopped the thick neck. He grunted. I gathered all my strength and chopped again. Abdullah sprawled on his face.
I moved wearily to Wilhelmina. When I turned back, Abdullah was just reaching into his jacket for the bulge underneath. I leveled the Luger at his head.
'Don't try it,' I said.
He gave me a calculating look, then brought his hand out empty. He moved heavily to a sitting position against the wall as I went over to him.
'Get up,' I said.
He hesitated at first, then struggled to his feet. I aimed Wilhelmina at his face.
'Now you listen to this,' I said. 'I know that the New Brotherhood was involved in the death of John Drummond. I know that when he was killed he was in possession of a certain attaché case that had been switched with his. I want his case back and I'm willing to pay well for it. You tell that to Bovet'
Abdullah focused on me. 'Okay,' he said. 'I will tell Bovet,'
'You tell him Nick Carter wants to see him,' I said. 'And you say that my patience is limited. Set up an appointment within forty-eight hours. You know how to get in touch with me.'
His face registered a new respect 'Okay, I will do it' he said.
'You'd better,' I said.
Five
'But Nick, you can't go alone!' Fayeh was saying. We were having dinner at the Roof Garden restaurant of the Nile Hilton; a small ensemble was playing Arabic music behind us.
I pulled the meat and vegetables of a lamb shishkebab off the hot skewer it was served on. 'What do you suggest — that I take a police guard?'
'Let me go with you.'
'There's no point. You're more valuable in a safe place, so you can get word to Hakim Sadek if I don't show up again.'
Her dark eyes showed genuine concern. 'I hope you know what you are doing, Nick. These men are extremely dangerous.'
'There's only one way to find out whether Bovet has the microfilm,' I told her. 'That's to ask him. Face to face.'
I glanced over at a table in a far corner and saw a man I recognized. He was Chinese, a tall slim young man with an intelligent face and a shock of black hair, dressed in a gray business suit. He was Kam Fong, an agent of Peking's dreaded L5 intelligence service. The last time I had seen him was in Kinshasa, in the Congo, where he had come close to killing me. He had looked over at our table and recognized me too. Now he was looking down at his plate.
'What is it?' Fayeh asked.
'An old friend of mine over there. A Chicom agent. If he's in Cairo something big is going on. I wonder if the New Brotherhood is dealing with the Chinese and Russians already.'
'Would you like to leave?'
I shook my head. 'No, he's seen me. Look, I'm going to be busy this evening with the New Brotherhood. If you want to help, find out where Kam Fong is staying.'
'I think I can manage that,' she said.
'He's very smart, Fayeh,' I warned her. 'And efficient. If he spots you, your career with Interpol will be over, quickly.'
'I'll be careful,' she promised.
I smiled and took her hand. I hoped she would be.
We rushed the meal and left well ahead of Kam Fong. I did not acknowledge that I'd seen him, and I hid Fayeh's face by walking between Kam and her as we went out.
I left Fayeh in the hotel lobby and returned to my room at the New Shepheards. I was following the instructions of the New Brotherhood. A nameless man had called me earlier in the day, telling me to be outside my hotel at ten p.m. sharp. I would be met. It was getting close to ten. I removed Wilhelmina and the shoulder holster and left them in my room. Hugo stayed in place on my arm.
I removed my shirt and reached for the attaché case Hawk had given me when I left Nairobi. It was another one of those fancy gifts from the boys at Special Effects and Editing back in Washington. I opened it and slid a secret panel. I took out two flat, rectangular metal boxes, one the size of a small cigarette lighter and the other the dimensions of a rather large whisky flask.
The small box had a couple of buttons on it and was an electronic detonator for the high explosives packed into the larger metal container. They both snapped onto a lightweight elastic harness that fit around my neck and waist. The two devices hung on my chest almost bulgeless under my shirt, in a position that only an expert searcher would find. With this apparatus on, I put my shirt back on and tied my black tie. When I donned my jacket there was no sign that I was wearing anything unusual.
Ten minutes later I was standing on the dark sidewalk outside the hotel, waiting for the contact. Ten o'clock passed; ten-five. Then a pair of headlights turned a corner onto the boulevard and headed slowly toward me. If they were still of a mind to kill me, I was going to make an easy target. But the big black Mercedes stopped at the curb near me. I made out three heads inside, two in front and one in back. The one in front nearest the curb got out and motioned to me. I went to the car.
The man who'd got out was a slim Arab with long thick hair and a very grim expression He was dressed in a dark suit. 'Get in,' he said. He pointed to the back seat.
I climbed into the car beside a dark-haired man. The car doors slammed and it roared away from the curb. As we moved along the boulevard, the man next to me slipped a blindfold over my eyes and tied it securely. Evidently they were taking me to their headquarters.
'Abdullah said you are not a cop,' the man beside me said. He spoke English with B-movie Italian accent. 'But you look like a cop to me.'
'Beauty is only skin deep,' I said.
Nothing else was said to me during the trip which took about twenty minutes. Even though I could not see, I kept a mental record of the left and right turns and the sounds and smells along the route. We passed two vendors' stands with baked potatoes for sale, for instance. And just before we turned into a gravel drive I heard the rumbling sounds of a small machine factory — or something similar — across the street. A couple minutes later, the car had stopped and I was being led up a flight of steps. There were four steps. At the top they knocked four times and a door opened. I was prodded forward. When the door closed behind us, I felt hands untying my blindfold, and suddenly I could see again.
I was standing in the entrance hall of what was obviously a very expensive home. It was all interior pillars and oriental tiles and potted plants. The ceiling had a mural depicting biblical Arab life.
'Very impressive,' I said. The three men who had accompanied me were standing close around me along with a fourth man who must have let us in. I figured all of them were underlings.
'You must be crazy,' the fourth man said to me. He looked Spanish, but he spoke English with a British accent. 'But you wanted to see Bovet and you shall. Come.'
They led me to a small elevator. As we crowded into it, I tried to remember the last time I'd been in a private home with an elevator. We rode up to a third floor and stepped out into a bright corridor. There the man who had spoken to me downstairs stopped me and searched me. He did a fairly good job. He found Hugo but not the explosive devices.
'We'll return this to you,' he said, holding up the knife.
I nodded. I started toward a door at the end of the hall, but they weren't through. The Italian who had sat beside me in the car now searched me. He, too, missed the explosives.
'All right,' the first man who'd searched me said. We moved toward the large door at the end of the hall and he opened it. We stepped into the room together.
I was forced to squint against the glare of powerful lights set at head level about two-thirds of the way across the room. Behind the lights was a long table. Three men sat at it, their torsos and heads only silhouettes behind the strong lights.
'Sit down,' the man at my elbow said. 'Do not move closer to the table than the chair.' He was pointing to a straight chair in the middle of
the room, in front of the table but well back from it. When I sat down I could see even less of the men at the table. The lights shone directly into my eyes. The door closed behind me, and I sensed that most or all of the men who had accompanied me to the room were still there.
'Is all this really necessary?' I said, squinting against the lights.
The man in the middle at the table spoke. 'A man in your business should not have to ask that question, Mr Carter.' His English was good, but he had a French accent. This was probably Pierre Bovet. 'I am only a name to the police. They do not know what I look like and I wish to keep it that way. The same with my associates here.'
Sweat broke out on my upper lip from the heat of the fights. It was like a scene from 1984. 'You're really Pierre Bovet?' I asked.
'That's right. And you are an American agent with a problem. Why do you bring that problem to me?'
'Somebody from the New Brotherhood killed our man, John Drummond,' I said bluntly.
'John Drummond killed a Brother,' Bovet said. 'When he got in touch with us about his attaché case, we thought he was sincere about merely wanting to trade cases and get his own back. So we went to him. He killed one of our men, Juan Maspero, and we had to kill him. It is all exceedingly simple.'
'Why would Drummond kill your man?' I asked.
I saw him shrug his shoulders. 'That is unknown, my friend.'
'Did you order Drummond's killing?'
A slight pause. 'One of our Brothers performed the task on his own. But I would have ordered it, Mr Carter, under the circumstances.'
I counted the heads at the table again. Only two besides Bovet's. Thinman had said there were three lieutenants. I wondered who was missing and why. I also wondered if one of those silhouetted heads belonged to the man who had recently tried to kill me, Selim el Bekri. My curiosity was soon satisfied. A head moved over toward Bovet's. The man on his right was whispering something in a very agitated way.
'Selim wonders why you are seen with an Interpol agent if you are not working with Interpol to investigate the New Brotherhood?'